


senior prom

by ataxophilia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Backstory, Eating Disorders, Gen, High School, Pre-Series, beverly katz is the most important thing on the planet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:59:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataxophilia/pseuds/ataxophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s that she doesn’t fit, not with her friends, not with the rest of her year, not with any of the people here. Not in her own home. Not in her own body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	senior prom

**Author's Note:**

> Some background: it's my personal headcanon that Beverly was adopted into and raised in a white American family, and therefore felt out of place throughout her childhood and teenage years. This isolation led to the development of an eating disorder, which is alluded to in this fic, as is her adoption.   
> Hopefully one day I'll write a fic exploring Beverly's backstory more thoroughly, but until then, there's this.
> 
> As unbeta'd as always. Mistakes are mine.

The air outside is the kind of sticky-hot that hits in June and doesn’t let up until September breaks clean and fresh over the city. It’s foul, heat heavy against Beverly’s skin, making her dress stick uncomfortably, but inside is worse. Too many people crammed into too small a space. Someone’s spiked the punch - of course someone has, it’s senior prom - so most of her classmates are a little too far past tipsy for Beverly’s comfort.

She hasn’t touched the punch, so she’s stone-cold sober, which doesn’t help the situation any. 

Senior prom was never going to be a good night for Beverly. She’s been aware of that since she started high school, almost four years ago now, a freshman kid with a big mouth and a tendency to stand up for the wrong people. Or the right people, depending on how you look at it. The thought of prom nights, with their peacock-like flurry of dresses and hairstyles and brightly coloured make-up, left her stomach rolling painfully even back then, when it was easy to get out of going. Everyone knows the prom is for the seniors, really, and nobody thought twice when Beverly shrugged and said she’d rather stay in, not even her mother. 

This year is different. This year, her mother’s been smiling since Spring break, the little, fond smiles that make Beverly feel even more guilty for how dark her skin is, how different her face is. How very un-American she is. This year, her friends have been comparing dresses and hairstyles and brightly coloured make-up for months. 

This year, when Beverly shrugged and said she’d rather stay in, her mother’s smile faltered and her friends giggled nervously, and Beverly forced a wry grin and told them she was only joking, just to see them all laughing again.

Her friends are laughing now - at least, they were when Beverly slipped out, but that was a while ago, now. They’re all inside, almost-drunk on spiked punch and happiness, arms around each others’ shoulders as they retell old stories in voices that are steadily getting louder. Beverly’s throat started closing up around an hour in, the glass of water in her hands lukewarm and uninteresting. Maddy’s wide eyes folded into a smile, and Tommy wrapped an arm around the perfect dip of Sarah’s waist, and Kate pressed three white fingers to her scarlet lips as she burst out laughing - and Beverly made a quiet excuse and left, her hands shaking so badly she almost spilt her water down her dress.

It’s not that she begrudges them their enjoyment, because she doesn’t, she really doesn’t, she’s happy that they’re happy. It’s just that they look so perfect, like a photo of the apple-pie, American-Dream prom, with their red cups full of pink punch, and their tropical-bird-colour dresses, and Beverly is-

Beverly is brown and black and the navy blue of her dress, the colour of bruises blossoming on pale skin, the back of her throat still tasting of vomit from when she curled up over the toilet in the restaurant they went to for their pre-prom meal. 

It’s that she doesn’t fit, not with her friends, not with the rest of her year, not with any of the people here. Not in her own home. Not in her own body. 

Her mother took photos before the cheap limo they’d all chipped in for arrived at the house. “Say cheese, Bev,” she said, and then, smiling proudly and a little tearfully, “You look like a fairytale come to life.”

Beverly looked in the mirror, took in slanted eyes and tan skin and dark hair, body fat where there shouldn’t be any, clenched her fingers until her nails dug into her palms. None of the princesses in her childhood storybooks had looked anything like she did, even with her fancy dress and her hair pulled into a delicate bun and her eyes lined with a silver-grey. 

She feels even less like a fairytale leaning against the bricks of a school wall, her pretty heels kicking at the loose gravel that always gathers in school yards. She’s more like a puzzle piece that ended up in the wrong box. The edge of a painting of a storm at sea in a pile of pieces that make up a field of flowers. 

Inside, a cheer sounds. People clap. A new song starts playing. Someone stumbles out of the door, laughing, tugging another someone with them. Neither of them notice Beverly.

A few more months, she thinks, dropping her head back against the wall. Just a few more months, and then she’ll be somewhere new, where nobody has to know that she never fitted properly back at home.

She’s a fighter. She can survive until then.

Beverly pushes herself upright, pastes on a smile, and slips back into the party.


End file.
